claret (wine or blood)
by Asuiru
Summary: even as the world falls apart around them, they stand together / royai 100 themes
1. Military Personnel

Disclaimer: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist.

* * *

001. Military Personnel

He remembers, and wishes - _hopes hopes hopes_ - that he didn't.

He remembers - _all too well_ - the feeling of burning fat coating his lips, coating his face, his body, the world.

He remembers black things that only resemble the people that they are meant to be, only resemble the laughingsmilingliving people that should be standing in front of him.

He remembers flames that consumed the world and spit it back out again.

Why had he joined the military again?

Why had he submitted himself to this living hell that was called the army, called war?

(why does he remember everything else but _reason_?)

He feels like a helpless child (not an innocent one, _never_ an innocent one), even as black curls of smoke rise from the ground and he brings his hand up again for the inferno to blaze out and consume everything and-

A gunshot rings out and he feels even more horrified. (he was the one that had made her into this person, this killer, and he wishes -_ hopes hopes hopes_ - that it was all a dream)

"Lieutenant," he says, tired and world-weary.

"Colonel," she replies, and because she has always been able to read his mind, gives him a sidelong look.

(and he remembers why he joined the military, why he joined the war. he was going to save the world. he was going to help it become something better)

He wonders if he is doing the right thing, but then he glances at her, the girl - _woman_ - who would follow him to the ends of the earth, and realizes it doesn't matter.

"Lieutenant," he repeats, as if it's the most natural thing in the world, a smirk tugging on the ends of his lips.

"Colonel," she says, relieved, and even though her face betrays nothing, he knows she is smiling radiantly at him.

They are in this mess, yes, but they are in this mess together.

* * *

AN:

This will be more of a place for me to experiment than anything. Experiment with what, you ask? Anything. Different styles, formats... maybe even learn how to write something that isn't a oneshot.

So I'll be using the themes as more of inspiration than as the central idea for each individual drabble. For example, what does this one have to do with military personnel? Absolutely nothing.

Constructive criticism is always welcome.

_~Asuiru_


	2. Gunshot

Disclaimer: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist.

* * *

002. Gunshot

Riza Hawkeye fires her first gun at eighteen years old.

Her father is dead and gone - and Roy Mustang might as well be - so when she finds it in her mother's old room, she doesn't hesitate.

It isn't a surprise to find it there. Both of her parents came from military lines, though they had both refused to acknowledge it.

She wraps her fingers around the pistol, and a sense of unsettling familiarity falls upon her. She picks it up and her pointer finger naturally finds itself on the trigger, her palm ready to steady the aim. She has seen the male children shooting often enough to understand the basic idea behind shooting a gun.

It is dark and heavy in her arms, painted matte black to, she assumes, conceal it from enemy eyes.

She pads quietly through the house, eager to make it outside. A creaking echoes through the house, and she tightens the grip on the pistol in her hand. (what's the point? she wonders, a cynical laugh parting her lips. she's the only one left alive.)

When she finally makes it to the meadows behind her house, she cocks the gun back and pushes violently at the trigger. Nothing happens.

Her brows furrow and the tips of her lips twitch down.

She glares furiously at the gun in her hands. She knows it is loaded, she had checked earlier, but she remembers once reading about the so-called "safety" of modern guns.

The next time she presses the trigger, the gun goes off with a satisfying explosion, and it is with chilling dread that she seals her own destiny.

She swears she can see blood on her hands for days afterward.

* * *

Roy Mustang bolts upright in bed, the sound of a gunshot resounding through the barracks.

The image of Riza Hawkeye, dead and in his arms, never leaves him.

* * *

It is only half a year later when they meet again at Ishval.

* * *

AN:

Didn't really expect this one to be written so quickly, but I'm not complaining.

_~Asuiru_


	3. Battlefield

Disclaimer: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist.

* * *

003. Battlefield

The Hawk's Eye holds a gun in her hands and kills.

It is natural and easy and everything it shouldn't be and she turns her head away and pretends that the man that had once been standing in her cross hairs is not dead.

_She knows that he will appear in her nightmares anyways._

There is blood on her hands and blood on her back and she sees him in deep Amestrian blue and it is only that which saves him.

He is still young and still him, but he is tired. She can see it in his slumped shoulders and limp arms and cold eyes.

She adjusts her aim and tightens her finger – if only, if only – but pulls away because this is the beloved Flame, and if she killed him, she would be next.

But she is a sniper. Is it not her duty to kill all those opposing Amestris?

Her lips curl down in a sneer because she knows as well as him what the answer to that question is, knows as well as him that her mortality isn't the only reason she refuses to pull the trigger.

She hates him, and yet she doesn't, and she refuses to acknowledge that there might be anything else to it.

She sighs, coughs out plumes of dust from her lungs. Her shift is over, and when she breathes in the relatively clear air of the desert, she wonders at how the putrid stench of death doesn't bother her anymore.

"_It's been awhile, Mr. Mustang," she says. "Do you remember me?"_

_He glances back, a fire lighting his eyes for but a second, and smiles a sad, sad smile._

"_How could I forget?"_

* * *

AN:

I wrote this one weeks ago, so it doesn't count as part of my writing streak.

For some reason, I like it better than 002 anyways.

As always, constructive criticism is more than welcome.

~_Asuiru_


	4. Grave

Disclaimer: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist.

* * *

004. Grave

The procession is slow and laborious, the pitch black coffin borne upon a pitch black car, with pitch black people following behind.

Hawkeye thinks - _knows_ - he would have hated it had he still been alive.

The reigning fuhrer presides over the ceremony with shaking hands and little Elysia Hughes can only cry. The pristine lawn is filled with soldiers in pristine blue dress uniforms, and they can only purse their lips and murmur, "He was a good man."

Through it all, Hawkeye stands with regal professionalism and closes her eyes slowly.

And when all is done and everyone else has left, she stays and turns her head up to the heavens, watching perfect clouds move across the perfect sky.

"Colonel," she says, voice hoarse, "it's raining."

_She feels useless_.

* * *

AN:

I feel like anyone who doesn't follow royai religiously like I do wouldn't understand this. :/

But _anyways_, it's meant to make you believe it's Hughes' funeral at first, when it's actually Roy's. That's really about it, actually.

Constructive criticism is, as always, more than welcome.

_~Asuiru_


	5. Heiki (Weapon) and Heiki (Fine)

Disclaimer: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist.

* * *

005. Heiki (Weapon) and Heiki (Fine)

Flame is life.

He believes, understands, knows this.

Flame is alive.

And its heartrate - _steady, steady_ - speeds up in the rush of blue light and oxygen and-

It consumes.

Roy Mustang feels fat coating his lips.

_I'm fine._

* * *

Bullets only kill.

She believes, understands, knows this.

Bullets are death.

And their haunting, looming, presence slices through the air with pinpoint precision and-

Another man is dead.

Riza Hawkeye thinks of black hair and black eyes as she turns the crosshair away from the flowing blood.

_I'm fine._

* * *

He kills and she kills and at the end of the day they have only descrated the white, white sand with blood and ashes.

They're not fine.

_Never have been._

* * *

**AN:**

It's been a while, but I finally got this written. I dunno, I already knew what I was going to write, but it just refused to be written.

Hah, shortest one yet, and that's saying something.

~_Asuiru_


	6. Death

Disclaimer: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist.

* * *

006. Death

"How could I forget?" he says, and in his mind's eye, sees a little girl with dawn-bright eyes and a smile as wide as the sky.

_How sad,_ he thinks_ that even she has the eyes of a killer, _and mourns the death of the little girl he had once known.

* * *

The gun is whisper quiet in her hands, and Cadet Hawkeye has never wondered what it would be to kill a man before now.

Her hands hold steady from ease of long practice and the crosshair is perfectly aligned, but her eyes are wide and her lips are trembling.

Raging infernos of flame break out in the distance and she shoots.

* * *

There is heat in the air and fat on his lips and he thinks he could almost puke as he looks out upon the ruined landscape.

A wounded woman crawls out of the debris and charges him, footsteps loud over the lifeless sand.

And then she is no more, ash upon the wind, and he can only look away.

* * *

The sky is painted in brilliant orange, and Riza Hawkeye will never get over death.

She takes the hand of the Ishvalan child and crushes it bone white between her fingers.

It is cold. Too cold, she thinks, as she feels the last vestiges of sunlight wash over her, both comfortable and burning through her cloak.

The child's mouth is open in horror and his eyes stare sightlessly out of his head and she can only tighten her grip.

She takes a single, drawn out breath, and begins to dig, streaking the white, white sand with blood.

_Can you do me a favor, Major Mustang?_

* * *

His eyes are dark.

_Can you really hold the woman you love with these blood-stained hands?_

Because they have all killed too much and sinned too much and holding something as pure as an innocent is akin to sacrilege.

Gracia has never seen the battlefield, and her smile is blinding white like the summer sun.

Roy shuts his eyes, pained.

Riza _is_ the battlefield, and her eyes are the crimson red of drying blood.

"Thirty more seconds," he whispers, and stares sightlessly before him.

_He imagines blood-stained hands holding a blood-stained woman, and doesn't know whether to laugh or to cry._

* * *

An experiment in chronology and disconnected pieces of a whole.

~_Asuiru_


End file.
